“What’s in a name?” they ask, which is just incredibly not the point and, honestly, I’m just sick of hearing that. I don’t know why I can’t leave the office at 4:45 like any other dignified working woman to beat the traffic that will clog the main artery between my house and Binny’s Beverage Depot. Claude at Binny’s knows to expect me and still smirks when I reach the conveyor belt with the same solitary purchase every day. “You know you could always buy a couple of bottles at a time to save yourself the trip…” which is also just incredibly not the point, Claude. This is date night — every night is date night and the ritual is important. There’s no romance in stashing jugs between Triscuits and fish oil pills in the cabinet. I just nod as he logs the purchase on my punch card. I feel better once we’re in the car — me and Pool Boy Rosé.

We found each other, of course, in Binny’s and it’s been an incredibly complicated relationship. My friends bitch that the age gap is indecorous and some want to make sure I understand it’s a bottle of wine, which is incredibly insensitive. “The name,” they say. “It’s just the name of the wine you like. Maybe try White Girl Rosé? That would be kind of spunky?” Tempting that a rosè of any other name may taste as sweet— suggesting I ruin something that is finally going so well for me.

And a woman at my age can’t still be drinking White Girl Rosé, thanks. That’s what brought me to Pool Boy in the first place. Thank God there’s no age limit to being a lush, but it’s prudent to drink responsibly according to your demographic. And the day I bought a Groupon for collagen fillers became the day I expired for White Girl Rosé. And the day I twisted my ankle on the curb leaving Applebee’s became the day I lost my stamina for Rosé All Day.

But then I found Pool Boy Rosé. And boy am I ripe for a Pool Boy.

So date night begins at Binny’s, then we make our way home — usually my place since Binny’s is Pool Boy’s place. From behind, Pool Boy has broad shoulders that narrow into cute little blue swim trunks. And I’m not sure about Pool Boy’s face because the label only includes his back but that’s definitely OK — Pool Boy is modest, leaving a little something to the imagination.

Pool Boy Rosé makes a great lover for several reasons:

  • He has an ABV. I like this for a couple of reasons and let me tell you why. First, the label is printed large enough for infirmed eyeballs like mine to read the percentage without glasses. And second, Pool Boy is transparent, which is so attractive when you’re getting to know someone. I swear more men should list ABV on their dating profiles.
  • His bottle is plastic. This is great so I don’t hurt myself on broken glass when I stagger to bed after consuming his last drop.
  • He is sweet, sensitive, and balanced with notes of berry. He pairs incredibly well with hard cheese and garlic potatoes, though I’ve also found that Pool Boy is excellent with Triscuits or fish oil pills or an empty stomach.
  • Um, Pool Boy is French! Enough said.
  • He will be great to sip by the pool when I can afford a house with a pool (Wow, pool boy, but no pool? Don’t put the horse before the cart, bitch friends say).
  • Quite simply, he is man and wine. Pool Boy is the tight, young Bacchus cougars like me crave.

So who knew my daily Dionysus has been waiting for me all this time in the fluorescent confines of Binny’s? The bitch friends can bitch about my relationship with Pool Boy Rosé — they’re just inured with their own miserable virtual existence on Bumble and Grind and wherever else women my age fling their rotting selves. Why else do you think I was even in Applebee’s that day in such a state that resulted in a twisted ankle?

Maybe I’m clingy, but I don’t like to share — I want all 1000ml of him to myself. And maybe I’ve earned the nickname “Twist-Top Cougar.” But for me, there is none so sweet — and tart with a dry finish — as my Pool Boy Rosé.